


Mercy Head

by ariadnes_string



Category: British Actor RPF, Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (2011)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-15
Updated: 2011-09-15
Packaged: 2017-10-23 18:21:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/253458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariadnes_string/pseuds/ariadnes_string
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’d told the bloke from <i>The Guardian</i> that it hadn’t been all single malt and Havanas but there had been that one night…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mercy Head

**Author's Note:**

> REAL PERSON FICTION. THIS HAS NO BEARING ON REALITY AND DID NOT REALLY HAPPEN (except that BC really did break up with his gf this year)

He’d told the bloke from _The Guardian_ that it hadn’t been all single malt and Havanas but there had been that one night…

He was sitting jammed in between Gary and Tom and the two of them had been plying him with drink all evening. Trying to cheer him up, he knew. He and Olivia had had the most amiable of break-ups, true, but sometime he still got a bit blue about it. And Tom could tell because he had known Ben so long, and Gary could tell, well, just because he was Gary. So now Tom had a hand on his left thigh and Gary had a hand on his right and they were playing their favorite game of oneupsmanship over his increasingly supine body. Everyone else—Colin, Mark, Ciaran—had faded away—but Gary, even though he lived pretty clean these days, had the kind of stamina that put them all to shame. And Tom? Tom lived for this kind of shit.

Tonight, in honor of Benedict’s mopiness, the topic was “bad break-ups I have had.” Between them, Tom and Gary had a wealth of experience in such things that Ben could only marvel at, so he just listened slack-jawed as the stories flew across him.

“And then she cut holes in every pair of my leather trousers. With a nail scissors.”

“Burned holes through my records—this is back when you had records, see—with a goddamn welding torch.”

“Flushed my drugs down the toilet.”

“Flushed my fucking iphone down the toilet.”

“Boys, boys,” Ben finally said, lowering his head onto the table, “I appreciate the thought, I do, but I must get home before I puke.”

But he didn’t end up at home. The three of them somehow ended up in Tom’s hotel room, Ben slumped on the couch over yet another shot of Glenlivet. Tom was in the loo, and Gary was on the phone to LA, listening to a blow-by-blow account of one of his kid’s soccer games, as alert as if he hadn’t spent all night in a smoky pub.

The mundane details were pretty much breaking Ben’s heart. He wanted kids so badly sometimes, with a weird visceral pull he couldn’t begin to understand. He blinked the moisture out of his eyes and took another swallow of Scotch.

“You’re a fucking pansy, mate, you always were.” That was Tom, back from the loo, his hands on Ben’s shoulders, his voice an affectionate growl. He kneaded the muscles there, and Ben relaxed into the touch.

“In my experience, there’s only one cure for a broken heart,” said Gary, pocketing his phone.

Ben looked up. If anyone would know, it would be Gary. Hugs, he was hoping Gary would say. Gary gave the best hugs.

“Blow jobs,” said Gary.

“You speak the truth, my friend,” said Tom.

“I’d help you out myself,” Gary went on, “but I don’t do blokes. Happy to lend encouragement, though.”

“I don’t do blokes either, not these days.” Tom came around to stand next to Gary and look at Ben thoughtfully.

“I—I—don’t do blokes myself.” Benedict finally forced himself to speak up and was dismayed to hear how the words slurred. He must be drunker than he’d thought.

They both cocked their heads at him as if wondering what bearing that could have on the matter.

“But for an old friend—“ said Tom.

“Aw, go on,” said Gary.

“I don’t need your mercy head,” Benedict spluttered, even though his cock seemed to have different ideas about it, seemed rather interested in the idea of having Tom’s mouth around it, now that the offer was out. It quite fancied the idea of Ben digging his fingers into Tom’s tattooed biceps, his muscled back. Ben and Tom had joked about it so much over the years, but maybe, yeah maybe, there’d always been a kernel of truth, of desire, under it all.

As usual, Tom seemed to know what he was thinking. And before Ben knew it his trousers were around his ankles, Tom was biting his way up his thigh, and he was hard as a fucking rock.

“Shh,” Gary soothed, because Gary was behind him now, rubbing his shoulders, pushing a hand through his hair. “Nothing to worry about, just mates helping each other out.”

“Just friends,” Tom murmured, breath hot on Ben’s balls, and then he took Ben into his mouth, pulled him in deep, and Christ he was a bloody genius with this too, was doing things with his tongue that _ohjesusfuck_

He supposed that encouragement was behind the noises Gary was making, though it sounded like there might have been a bit of enjoyment in there too.

Ben raked his fingers over Tom’s tattoos, the muscle as firm and warm as he’d imagined, brushed them over the bristled fuzz of Tom’s scalp and willed it to go on and on and on.

But much too soon it was over. He came in a white-out flare of pleasure, and let Tom milk the last shiver out of him, swallow it down.

“Ur-hmmm,” Ben said, thumping his head back against the sofa cushions, by which he meant, “wow,” and “thank you,” and “what the fuck.” But between the booze and the orgasm his powers of speech seemed to have vanished, not to mention his hold on consciousness.

He was dimly aware of someone toweling him off and pulling up his boxers, and then of his feet being shifted onto the couch and something, a blanket or a jacket, settling over him.

He heard the sound of more liquid pouring into glasses, smelled cigarettes being lit, and then someone said, “I forgot about this one time this bird took an electric razor to me while I was sleeping.”

And someone answered, “To your head, mate? Please. There was this girl once, she went after the old short and curlies, with a straight-edge—“

And then he was out.


End file.
